


Ghosts

by Crazed_Fuzzle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, PB&J Epifest, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazed_Fuzzle/pseuds/Crazed_Fuzzle
Summary: Written for the prompt: More than anything, Kent desperately wants to talk to Jack; he spends his time watching him from afar as Jack comes out with his (admittedly really cute) boyfriend in tow. But something insidious is keeping Kent from reaching out, something that's invading his sleep and his sanity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PBJ_EpiFest_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBJ_EpiFest_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>     
> Song/Artist: Ghosts/Pvris
> 
> Prompt Details: More than anything, Kent desperately wants to talk to Jack; he spends his time watching him from afar as Jack comes out with his (admittedly really cute) boyfriend in tow. But something insidious is keeping Kent from reaching out, something that's invading his sleep and his sanity.
> 
> Additional Info: I'd enjoy something nighttime-based, paranormal or something psychological--either one would be really neat. Ideally this could be a two-main-parts fic, one where Kent struggles with the problem and one where Jack and Bitty (who had noticed Kent getting more tired on TV etc) try to help him with it.
> 
> Particularly these lyrics:
> 
> "You're the one at the foot of my bed trying to keep me alive at night.  
> Using words as a comforter you said, "I don't wanna fight, I don't wanna fight."  
> But they, they sink into my skin,  
> Pushing you out just to make their way in."
> 
>  
> 
> I may have veered a little bit left from the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it!

What no one ever told Kent before he moved to Las Vegas was that it was really fucking cold at night.

He’d come to the desert thinking (when he had the time to spare a thought for it, with everything else that had been going on) that at least he’d be free of those godawful New England winters. And sure, it didn’t snow here, which at least counted for something, and the days were mostly just fine. But he’d found out the hard way that January is January, even in Las Vegas.

So it’s January, Kent is freezing, and Jack Zimmermann is out of the closet.

He’s been staring at his phone for longer than he wants to admit, and he still hasn’t figured out what he’s supposed to do here. This isn’t just big—it’s the biggest, and he had no warning, no hint that everything was about to change. Zimms could at least have had shown him the courtesy of shooting off a “hey, I’m about to be the first out gay man in pro hockey, thought you might want to know since we figured out how to use condoms together, good luck with the media and your emotions lol.” Or, you know, the Jack Zimmermann version of that, which would probably end up being five emotionally-stunted words, and which would still have been five emotionally-stunted words more than he actually got.

Helpfully, Purrs jumps onto his coffee table and eyes the phone sitting on it in deep suspicion.

“At least you get me,” Kent sighs dramatically. Purrs responds by batting the phone over the edge and promptly abandoning him for her food dish.

“Traitor!” he calls after her, and with a groan levers himself off the couch to retrieve the phone.

Suddenly his condo is too small. He needs to be in motion, because the thoughts bouncing around in his head are too much and there isn’t enough room in here for them anymore. If he had his choice, he’d be on the ice and skating it out, but management tends to frown on him breaking into the arena in the middle of the night. Instead he just gets into his car and drives, away from the blaring neon and stifling crowds of the city.

Once upon a time, Kent daydreamed about being the one that came out with Jack. Even as a teenager he’d known enough about the world to know it could only ever be a daydream, but still. He’d been young and in love—how was he supposed to resist sweeping fantasies about the two of them kicking ass and breaking records, being the most amazing hockey players the league had ever seen, about being so good that when they came out they not only survived, but totally shifted the way pro hockey looked at being gay?

Yeah, he’d known they were dumb fantasies then, too. Kent had been well aware that if he wanted a real career he’d have to keep the closet door chained shut. Ten years later, after going first in the draft and winning the Calder and the motherfucking Stanley Cup, he can count on one hand the number of people who know.

Except Jack fucking Zimmermann had to just go and throw all that in the dumpster. It turned out it was an option after all—not just coming out in general, but coming out with Jack in particular. And that little Southern kid—how did he even play hockey?—with the big soulful eyes and the eavesdropping habit is the one who gets to do it. Does he even realize—

Abruptly, Kent pulls off to the side of the road and gets out of the car, breathing hard. It’s even colder out here in the desert, but he can’t bring himself to care. He strides out into the sand and scrub and cacti. The landscape is eerie in the dark, unfamiliar shapes becoming even more warped by shadow, the sand shifting in the wind. After the cacophony of Las Vegas, the quiet out here is almost tangible, pressing in on him from all sides. In response, he paces harder, kicking at shapes in the dust that might be rocks or might just be pockets of midnight.

The thing is, he can’t even manage to be angry right, because fucking idiot that he is, he wants this to work out for Jack. What kind of masochistic moron wants his ex and his replacement to be happy together? But he knows, he knows that Jack deserves to be on the ice, and that losing hockey like this might actually kill him.

He wonders how Jack is holding up right now.

Pausing to lean against an outcropping of rock, Kent fishes in his pocket for his phone. He grips it tightly. Jack probably needs all the support he can get. Kent wants to support him, wants to let him know that there’s someone else in the NHL who has his back, at least one opponent he won’t have to worry about coming after him for this.

Kent shivers, hunches his shoulders against the cold. He really is alone out here—not even another car passing on the road. Probably not another soul for miles. The sky, inky black and stained with stars, presses down on him—it feels a lot closer than it did in the city, the weight of the darkness suddenly heavy in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye something moves. He jumps, spins to catch it—but there’s nothing there but sand and those scrubby plants he never learned the name for. There’s nothing there.

There’s nothing there and there’s nothing between him and Jack, at least not anymore. Jack’s been avoiding him for the better part of a decade; fine. Why change things up now that they’ve almost started to patch things up? He clearly doesn’t need to hear anything from Kent, because he came out just fine without mentioning anything to Kent first. Kent’s just gotta stay the fuck out of it, that’s all there is to it.

He can see his car in the distance, and he makes his way back to it as quickly as he can manage. Something about the open expanse of the desert behind him spurs him forward faster and faster, a presence right behind him that pushes him until he’s running, stumbling in the sand, slamming the car door shut behind him.

Kent drives home over the speed limit, still shivering when he unlocks the door to his condo and when he climbs into bed.

Even though he piles on as many blankets as he owns, he isn’t warm until morning.

_X_

Practice the next day is a relief.

Well, sort of.

Before he can get on the ice, he has to endure the locker room. And Kent loves the Aces—really he does, they’re a great group of guys—but there is only so much gossip and speculation about Zimms’ sexual history that he should be expected to handle, seriously. He doesn’t think they’ll go as far as to ask him to his face, but he knows the rumors about them from the Q. It’s only a matter of time before somebody remembers, and he needs to cut off that line of questioning before it even starts.

“Who cares who he’s screwing? Doesn’t change the fact that he’s gonna screw us all over on the ice unless we get our act together,” Kent finally snaps. “Worry about his hockey, not his dick.” He does his best to keep it light, but honestly as long as they shut up about it he can’t quite bring himself to care. The conversation around him quiets, and he tries not to stomp as he leaves.

Once he gets to the part with skating, though, Kent can breathe again. He does a few easy laps before the rest of the team joins him, and then he doesn’t have to think about anything but the clean slice of his blades against the ice and the firm weight of the stick in his hands. The rush of adrenaline at pushing himself harder and pulling off tricky plays and doing what he loves hasn’t faded after all these years—shifted a little, maybe, but not faded. By the end of practice he’s started to feel normal again. The world hasn’t stopped moving after all.

Swoops claps a hand on Kent’s shoulder as they head back to the showers with a quiet, “You okay?”  
Kent makes a face, considers lying. Out of his whole team, Swoops is the only one who has anything close to the whole story. Coincidentally, he’s the only one who knows Kent isn’t necessarily straight. Funny how that works.

“Well the timing sure sucks,” he admits. “Seriously, couldn’t he at least wait until off-season?”

“Look at it this way,” Swoops says, slinging a towel over his arm, “at least you have something to do other than mope around your apartment alone while it blows over.” 

“Hey, I never mope around my apartment alone,” Kent tells him with a firm scowl. “I’ve got Kit to keep me company.”

And Swoops calls him a crazy cat lady and Kent retaliates and the whole thing degenerates from there, but Kent appreciates the sentiment.

If he stays under the spray a bit longer than usual—if he lets the water wash over his face and aching muscles until he’s alone—well, it’s not his fault he’s the only one on his team with decent hygiene. He’s definitely not relieved.

_X_

Before, Kent had done everything in his power to ignore the existence of that Bittle kid. He’d managed to convince himself that Jack was just on the rebound, that the kid was a poor man’s replacement for Kent and soon his heart would be just as broken. 

Now, though, Bittle’s pretty much impossible to ignore.

The kid has pictures in tabloids, plastered on the home screen for every sports-related website that pays even a dime’s worth of attention to hockey. His name is on everyone’s lips, from Kent’s teammates to newscasters to people in line at the coffee shop. And if Zimms is coming out for him, it’s a pretty safe bet that he’s going to be around for a while. No matter what Kent would prefer to think.

It’s…possible that Kent overcompensates.

He spends an afternoon finding out everything he can—and it’s not like Bittle makes himself hard to find, between Twitter and Youtube. It should be easy to scoff at his naïveté, disdain his not-so-subtle references to Zimms, scorn his cloyingly sweet persona. More than anything, Kent wants to hate the kid. Instead, it occurs to him that no wonder Zimms chose this boy over him—he’s everything Kent isn’t, warm and bright and painfully selfless, even in the brief glimpses he gets from 5 minute videos and 140-character blurbs. And okay, maybe he’s pretty cute too, and maybe Kent should stop thinking of him as a kid but he can’t get over the impression of how young he was the one and only time they’d met.

As the light outside fades, Kent finds himself with his thumb hovering over the green call button on his phone. He wants to ask Zimms if this boy is worth it, if he regrets all the trouble they’ve brought down upon themselves. He wants to ask what it feels like to have someone on your side like that, if it means Zimms is doing okay in spite of everything. He wants to ask if his friendship—his support—means anything at all to Zimms anymore, if it ever did, if it ever will again.

He shivers against the cold of his apartment, takes a deep breath, and taps call.

Nothing happens.

Kent frowns and jabs at the touchscreen again, and still nothing. Maybe the reception is just bad—but no, even when he paces there’s no response from his phone. It’s not just Jack’s number that isn’t getting a response—dialing both his mom and Swoops has the same result. 

“What the fuck?” he asks Kit, who begins licking her paw in response.

“What the actual fuck?” he repeats when he realizes that not only is his phone not working, but he can’t connect to the internet or use Netflix. He spends about ten minutes trying to troubleshoot the problem before he realizes that he knows shit-all about how this shit actually works beyond the basics.  
Because Kent Parson is actually pathetic, he watches Casablanca before bed (it’s one of the only dvds he has, shut up Swoops) and if he cries at the ending, well, at least he knows Kit won’t sell him out.

First thing in the morning, he’s going to get his phone checked out, and then he’s calling his internet company and giving them hell.

_X_

It’s not like Kent had a particularly thrilling personal life before (except for Kit; Kit is flawless and deserves all the attention he can give her), but hockey is what he lives for right now. When he’s on the ice, he doesn’t have to think about Zimms or his adorable boyfriend; he doesn’t have to sit around bored when his internet inevitably craps out (because of fucking course it wasn’t just a one-time problem); he doesn’t have to worry about the what-ifs or the I-should-be-betters that are keeping him awake at night. If he’s really lucky, he’s tired enough after a game that he can fall right to sleep.

Tonight though, the boys want to go out to celebrate a hard-won game against Boston, and honestly right now a night on the town sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered.

As such things usually do, the evening starts off with an excited retelling of the game’s highlights to anyone who will listen. Jeff has managed to buy a drink for a young lady in a short, sequined dress, and Kent obligingly recounts Jeff’s assist in third period—“it was a beaut”—“he had these two thugs on his tail”—“couldn’t have won the game without him.” The girl looks suitably impressed, and Jeff shoots Kent grateful looks for the rest of the evening.

From there, things devolve. Some of the rookies start up a game of making up the most ridiculous drink names they can imagine and seeing what the bartender makes for them. Kent briefly considers discouraging them—most of those kids aren’t even legal to drink yet—but when they buy him a drink named “Captain Amazing” in his honor, he decides to turn a blind eye.

The bar is too loud, honestly. He usually loves places like this—loves the energy, the lack of inhibition—but tonight it’s stifling. He briefly tries dancing, but he can’t seem to find the energy for it.

“What’s wrong, you getting too old Parser?” his teammates tease him as he sits back down at the booth.

“It must be past his old man bedtime,” another chirps.

Kent musters up a smirk from somewhere. “When you score the winning goal, Dixie, then you can chirp me about being tired.”

“Dixie’s gonna score something, all right,” Swoops grins, clapping Dixie’s shoulder. “Tell him, kid.”

Grinning dazedly, Dixie announces “I bought a ring for Emily today.”

“Emily the pharmacist?” Kent hears himself ask. “She’s too good for you, Dixon.”

The conversation moves on, and Kent slumps back into the booth and lets it wash over him. They’re talking about Dixie’s plans to propose to his girlfriend, he can’t really follow the thread of the conversation. He tries to be invested in the lives of his team, tries to support them, but he can’t help the flood of jealousy that Dixie can just talk about getting engaged right here in the open and no one questions it. 

Shaking his head, Kent tries to focus on Dixie, but it’s too loud in here, and the rest of his teammates seem miles away. His brain keeps taking him in circles: Dixon doesn’t have to worry about the rest of the team not understanding, or the media dogging his every step for the sheer novelty of it if they happen to find out. Not a one of these boys has ever had to worry about whether a date would sell him out, or who would be safe to talk to about his relationship problems, or felt the stab of personalized shame and rage when the opposing team gets a little too vicious with their insults. Kent is surrounded by people who are supposed to be his team, and suddenly it feels like not a one of them actually knows him.

“—find yourself a girlfriend, Captain?”

Kent comes back to himself with a jolt, head swimming. He stands abruptly, ignores the way his brain feels disconnected from his body.

“It’s been real, boys, but I should get some ice on my knee. Don’t party too hard—we still have practice in the morning whether you’re throwing up or not.”

It’s not his smoothest exit by far, but he doesn’t care. All he wants right now is to be back in his own bed in the peace and quiet, where maybe he can start making sense of things again. Or at least get rid of the heavy weight that’s dragging at his eyelids

He manages to get home somehow, though when Kent’s standing inside his door he can’t for the life of him remember how he got here. He strips off his clothes and doesn’t bother with pajamas despite the cold of his condo, doesn’t even look at the thermostat, just falls into bed.

He doesn’t manage to fall asleep for another two hours.

_X_

“You’d think they would’ve gotten bored with it by now,” Swoops says, eyes still on the screen. They’re lounging on his couch playing Street Fighter--old school, because apparently Swoops has decided that it’s his mission to blow his money on vintage games and the systems to go with them—and at first Kent doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“Fighting games?”

“Zimmermann.” Swoops chances a look at Kent, and because it’s not Kent’s fault that Swoops is being overly sensitive, he goes in for the kill. “Like, aren’t they still asking you about him at interviews? As if your answer is about to change.”

“It’d be a big deal even if he wasn’t the Prince of fucking Hockey,” Kent tells him, lip curled—and aw man, Swoops is pausing the game. “Everyone wants to be the first to find a new angle.”

“First of all, if he’s the prince then you’re the king—”

“Ew, do you even think before you talk?”

“—and second, you’ve been off since the news hit. Do you need help distracting the vultures? Because I can be damn distracting if I put my mind to it.”

Kent sighs and puts down his controller. Clearly this is going to be a Talk. “Okay, look, I’m fine—”

“Yeah, not buying it—”

“—but yeah, it sucks having someone asking me about my ex every time his boyfriend says something adorable on Twitter.” And sure, he’d expected the questions when they first came out, but for some reason they still think he has an opinion about every little tooth-rottingly sweet tidbit that the media comes across. And every fucking time, it’s like a punch to the gut: Hey, the guy you’ve been pining after for the better part of a decade is being publicly happy with someone else, how do you feel about that?   
“But I’ve handled worse. It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Swoops tells him, and Kent can’t help but snort at the reference. “When’s the next time we play Providence, again? That asshole needs to get slammed into the boards a time or two for springing this on you.”

“Hey, don’t even—”

“Joking! Mostly. I know, I know: we’ve gotta play a good clean game, we’re not going to treat him any different because being gay has nothing to do with how he plays hockey and we’re not gonna be one of those teams.” The latter portion of this speech is delivered in what Kent thinks is supposed to be an exaggeration of his New York accent, but mostly makes Swoops sound like he has a cold. That doesn’t make him wrong—Kent had been planning to give the guys a talk pretty damn close to that before their next game against the Falconers. He’s been paying attention to the news; Jack’s been getting more than his fair share of dirty checks.

“Fuck you, I don’t sound like that.” Kent scrubs a hand through his hair. “Look, you’re right, I’m having a really fucking awful time with this, but I’ll make it through. He’s got a right to live his life. I’m just not part of it anymore.” He clears his throat to banish the tightness from it, and Swoops is a good enough friend that he pretends not to notice Kent willing back his tears. 

Swoops pats his shoulder. “His fucking loss.”

“Yeah, yeah, are we going to finish this game or what?”

And Kent settles in for an afternoon of getting his ass kicked—because Swoops is a fighting game savant apparently, what the hell—and tries not to look like he’s distracted at all. It’s not going to do anyone good for Swoops to be up in arms over this, because short of actually punching Zimms in the face there’s not a whole lot he can do. Sitting here, playing videogames with his best friend—the one who’s actually present in his life—things almost feel normal.

Kent just really wishes he could find out what’s going through Jack’s mind right now.

_X_

So maybe Kent’s been letting this thing with Jack get to him a little too much. No big surprise there—that’s about par for the course with him and Zimms. But it’s not like there’s anything he can do to fix things with Zimms—not like there’s anything there to fix anymore, really—so the next best thing Kent can do is get him out of his system.

Which is how he finds himself at a bar just off the strip, nursing something neon that is apparently on special tonight. He lives in Vegas; there are plenty of places like this, where the lights are dim and the music is loud, and even if most of the crowd wasn’t made up of tourists almost none of them would know the first thing about hockey anyway. It’s as close to anonymous as he can get, so when he meets the eyes of the smoking hot guy across the bar he doesn’t hesitate to smirk and quirk a challenging eyebrow.

It works like a charm. The guy picks up his bottle and meanders over, leans up against the bar close enough that his arm brushes Kent’s shoulder.

“Drinking alone?”

“Not anymore, I’m not,” Kent replies, and gives the guy another unsubtle once-over—and he’s used to beefed up guys in his profession, okay, but hot damn does this guy carry the muscle well.

The guy notices him looking and smiles, and doesn’t really stop smiling again. As it turns out, it’s hard to carry a conversation when the music is turned up to eleven, but Kent isn’t in this for the conversation anyway. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know anything about Manuel but his name and the fact that he’s a computer technician here on vacation. It’s really not important. All he needs to know is the way the guy—whose name, apparently, is Manuel—licks his lips, angles his body into Kent’s space, finds little reasons to touch Kent’s arm and shoulder and knee. That kind of conversation doesn’t need any words.   
He’s not looking for a deep meaningful connection here, not looking for true love. Manuel is broad and golden-skinned and has warm, dark eyes, not blue. Manuel is here and interested and there’s heat in his gaze when Kent suggests that they go someplace quieter.

Someplace quieter is Kent’s condo. Manuel spends the drive asking about what it’s like living in Vegas, what Kent recommends he should do while he’s here—and the whole time his hand is resting on Kent’s thigh, hot and present. Kent shivers from the contrast between Manuel’s heat and the chill of the night air.

They barely manage to close the door before they’re on each other, all lips and tongues and teeth, hands fumbling to get past clothing to one another’s skin. For once all Kent can think about is the rasp of stubble against his neck and the suck of Manuel’s mouth where it finds the tender spot just above his collarbone and the need to get closer to the warmth beneath his hands. He pulls Manuel through his front room walking backwards, praying that Purrs will stay out from underfoot, but unwilling to stop touching even long enough to make it to the bedroom facing forward.

Kent falls back onto the bed and Manuel follows, even as Kent’s greedy hands pry open the buttons of his shirt and spread over the smooth planes of his chest. Manuel returns the favor by rucking up Kent’s t-shirt to his armpits and devotes himself to exploring Kent’s abs with his mouth, venturing ever lower. Kent’s skin burns deliciously where they touch, fire lights up his veins as the friction between them grows and he revels in the blaze, closing his eyes as Manuel pops the button on his jeans—

And then he’s touching nothing, and the cold floods back in at the same moment he registers a yell and a crash. Kent sits bolt upright, unable to comprehend how Manuel has somehow fallen into the wall when he was just on the bed a moment ago. Looking equally confused, Manuel gets to his feet, rubbing his head where it presumably hit the wall.

“What the hell just--”

“Are you okay?” Kent asks at the same time, getting to his feet. He takes a single step toward Manuel.

Manuel is flung across the room—flung as if someone with inhuman strength had grabbed him around the middle and thrown, except there’s no one else here. His shoulder hits the doorframe with a crack, and he yells in surprise and pain. Frantically scanning the room, Kent can’t see anything—or anyone—that might have pushed Manuel like this. Once again his heart is racing, but his boner has been pretty effectively killed.

“What the fuck?” Manuel demands.

“What happened?” Kent also demands, because nothing is making sense right now, and it’s cold, so fucking freezing he can’t steady his hands. He tries again to go to Manuel—hockey’s a rough sport, he knows at least the basics of first aid—

This time Manuel is thrown into the living room, and it’s the couch that stops him. Kent can’t stop turning, afraid to have his back to whatever is doing this, but there’s nothing, his apartment it empty except for him and Manuel—Manuel, whose lip is bleeding, who’s staring at Kent with wide eyes, who’s struggling to use the couch to lever himself to his feet. Kent starts to go help him to his feet, and Manuel flinches.

“Don’t come near me!” he shouts, staggering back a second. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up game you’re playing, but I’m out.”

“What—can you walk, is anything broken—” Despite himself, Kent starts toward Manuel again. Kent can’t just let him leave like this, he might have a fucking concussion--

Again Manuel is wrenched from his feet, dragged across the floor, and Kent freezes. Finally he gets it. This is him. Somehow, this is his fault. He doesn’t move as Manuel staggers upright and practically runs from the condo, his shirt still unbuttoned.

Kent stands paralyzed until the door slams closed, and then he sinks to the ground, head in his hands. This can’t be happening. Surely he imagined all of this, it’s just not something that’s possible—but there’s a dent in the drywall from where Manuel’s skull impacted it the first time. He couldn’t have made that up.

Kent scrambles into his bed, searching the room all the while for any sign of what’s doing this, but there’s nothing. Nothing but a feeling like something is watching him, something that doesn’t like him very much. He wraps himself in blankets like a little kid convinced that the monsters can’t get him if he’s all covered up. Despite his cocoon he doesn’t stop shivering, and he doesn’t lie down, and he certainly doesn’t sleep.

_X_

Kent is practically a zombie the next day at practice. His reaction time is way too slow, and he keeps spacing out on the ice. He can feel the weight of his teammates’ eyes on him and pushes through. The minute practice ends, he rockets out of there—doesn’t even bother showering, just gets out of his gear and leaves before anyone can try to talk to him.

He has no idea what’s going on. He’d probably sound crazy if he said it out loud: “yeah, there’s a ghost in my apartment that doesn’t want me to get laid.” Like anyone would believe that.

All he knows is that he wants to stay as far away from his condo as he can for as long as he can.

The great thing about Vegas is that there’s always about twenty different things going on. Kent hasn’t played tourist for a while, so he heads to the strip and wanders aimlessly, lets the sea of people flow around him. When he’s tired of that, he gets a ticket for a cheap magic show and manages to lose some time trying to figure out the tricks.

But the sun is setting when he leaves, and Kent can feel himself waning. Inevitably he stumbles home.

He wonders if he’s actually going insane. Maybe his mind snapped and he’s slowly spiraling the drain. Well, if he is, he places the blame squarely on Zimms’s shoulders. He’s stone cold sober, but the urge to leave a long, rambling voicemail is overwhelming. Maybe him having a break with reality will finally be enough to make Jack call him back.

Oh, look at that, he’s got his phone out. He read somewhere once that lack of sleep did the same thing to you as alcohol—maybe that’s true, because here he is, pressing the call button.

And nothing happens.

Over and over, he dials and re-dials, and doesn’t get so much as a busy signal. Kent goes down every number on his contact list, one by one, and not a single call goes through. He tries Skype on his laptop next, with the same results.

Then Twitter.

Then Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat.

Then he tries every contact on his phone again. When he reaches Z for the third time he hurls his phone across the room. It hits the wall with a crack, and he’s pretty sure the screen’s shattered now, but who fucking cares? 

Kent can’t contact another living being on the planet, can’t even upload a picture of his cat. 

He screams into one of the decorative pillows on his couch, then throws that across the room too. Kit dashes to her favorite hiding spot in his coat closet, leaving him completely and utterly alone—except for that feeling from last night, the feeling that something is there, watching and waiting.

He doesn’t get that much sleep tonight, either.

_X_

Kent is off his game, and he’s pretty sure people are starting to notice. When his coach summons him to his office after practice, he’s not surprised, but his stomach drops.

“I’m just tired,” he insists, over and over. “I’ll be fine.”

“Get more rest,” his coach finally says with a skeptical look, and Kent agrees and leaves as fast as he can.

It’s not like he isn’t trying to get more rest. It seems like all he ever does now is sleep or try to sleep. It’s the first thing he does when he gets back from practice, what he does before a game, on airplanes, on buses. Usually he can get in a few hours during the afternoon. But come evening, no matter how heavy his eyes are or how exhaustion pulls at his limbs, he can’t manage to sleep in his own bed. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining the coldness or the watching thing, but whatever it is makes it impossible to rest.

He has to, though. Because it’s messing up his game and if Kent doesn’t have hockey, then he’s got nothing. He’s making stupid mistakes on the ice, can barely track the puck sometimes. It takes everything he has to focus on what’s going on around him and shake the lead out of his feet. Honestly nothing about whatever is going on scares him more than this—because even in his rookie year with the Aces, when everything else in his world was fucked up beyond his teenaged ability to handle, hockey was grounding. But hockey can’t fix it this time.

Roadies are his saving grace—hotels, it seems, are safe from whatever it is that’s stealing his sleep and his sanity. He goes right on thinking this until he wakes up in the middle of the night in Chicago, his skin crawling with the feeling of being watched, curled in on himself from the cold.

Kent sits bolt upright, wide awake despite the grit in his eyes. No matter where he looks, he can’t see whatever it is—not that he’s expecting to, but he can’t stop checking. What he does see, though, makes his blood run cold.

Swoops, fast asleep in the hotel room’s other queen-sized bed.

There’s nothing happening to him, not yet. But the sight of Manuel being tossed around Kent’s condo is imprinted on his brain, and now his mind has helpfully offered up an artistic image of what it would look like with Swoops. Kent wants to throw up. His stomach is roiling, but he can’t move, because what if just being close to him is enough to set…whatever it is off on Swoops? He can’t risk it. He refuses to put Swoops in danger like this.

He sits stock still until daylight creeps in around the heavy hotel curtains. Then he’s out of there, because there are some conversations he needs to have asap.

_X_

“What the fuck dude, you requested not to room with me?”

Kent winces and glances around the hotel lobby. The attendant filling the carafe of complimentary coffee looks disinterested, but you can never be too sure.

“Nothing personal man, I just needed some space, you know?”

“How the fuck isn’t this personal? We’ve been rooming together on roadies for literal years. What is up with you lately?”

Kent shrugs and tries to look as though he doesn’t care that his best friend is livid with him. It’s for Swoops’s own good. Better for him to hate Kent than to get hurt because Kent was too chickenshit to go through with this.

“Nothing’s up with me, I’m just sick of sharing a room. Didn’t think it was a crime to want some time to myself without you clinging all over me.”

Swoops laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Yeah, because you haven’t been spending as much time alone as humanly possible this last month. Right. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re not playing like yourself. Just fucking tell me what’s wrong and get it over with.”

Kent has this ability to see exactly what he can say to hurt a person most. He fucking hates that he has the ability. Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t use it.

“What’s wrong? Easy. I’m done wasting time on lame-ass second-liners who just want to ride on my coattails. Hate to break it to you, but you’re not going to get any more talent just by sleeping in the same room.”

There’s something that hardens in Swoops’ eyes, and Kent hates it. He despises this part of himself, even as he knows this is for the better. No one is safe near him. It doesn’t matter that he’s alienating the only person in the godforsaken entirety of Las Vegas who understands him; Kent won’t have Swoops getting hurt because of him.

He won’t, no matter how much he feels like crying.

“Fine.” Swoops’ voice is low, a barely-there growl that Kent’s only ever heard on the ice right before gloves get dropped. “If you want to be a self-absorbed prick alone in your single, be my fucking guest. Just don’t come crying to me the next time Jack fucking Zimmermann makes the news.”

It’s like a punch to the diaphragm; all the air rushes out of Kent’s lungs. “Glad we understand each other,” he manages somehow. He makes himself watch as Swoops stalks over to the elevator bank, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat the entire time.  
He knows he just won, but it doesn’t feel anything at all like a victory.

_X_

Kent is bone tired as he stumbles out of the locker room. All he wants to do is sleep, these days—because he’s definitely not sleeping at night. It’s only gotten worse over the last few weeks; it had been a struggle to drag himself out of bed for morning skate, and he’d nearly overslept the alarm he set for his pre-game nap. 

The game itself is already hazy in his memory. He knows they lost—the atmosphere in the locker room would have been enough to tell him that—but he can’t help feeling like he missed something important. He’s racking his brain trying to remember it as he shoulders his gear—he managed to put on a media-worthy face for the press, he has all of his shit, so what—

Jack Zimmermann is standing in front of him.

Kent blinks slowly at him, half-convinced that hallucinations are just the next step for his sleep-deprived brain before he remembers that yes, they actually are in Providence tonight.

“Uh, hey Kent. Good game,” Zimms says in that awkward way of his.

Kent snorts. “Not particularly.”

Zimms frowns at that, but recovers quickly. “I’ve seen worse.” There’s a pause, and then he blurts, “If you want to go get some food, Bittle and I—”

“What, and play third wheel all night? Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Kent interrupts before Zimms can finish the offer. 

“If it bothers you that much, we can go without him.” A furrow has taken up residence between Jack’s eyebrows. It makes his eyes look extra droopy.

It would be so easy to go along, have a beer, ask him all the questions that have been burning since the news story hit, figure out what about that Bittle kid made Jack go gaga (other than the fact that, well, it’s pretty obvious Jack has a type). They’d been making progress toward being friends again, before Kent’s life got eighty times more fucked up than it already was. He can see them sitting in some quiet diner, Zimms making his lame dad jokes and Bittle critiquing the reheated diner pie (because if his vlog is any indication he totally would, and it would be hilarious) and Kent trying to see how ridiculous he can make one of his Vegas stories before they realize he’s bullshitting them. It would be the closest thing he’s had to fun in months, and his chest hurts with how much he wants it. God does he want it.

But it’s well past dark now.

Kent can feel the cold creeping into his bones, the feeling of something watching him. In the back of his mind there’s an infinite loop of Manuel hitting the wall again and again. It’s not safe to be around him. He can’t let Zimms get hurt because of him (not again), can’t put that bright-eyed kid in danger—they’ve both been through enough since they came out.

“Yeah, I’m gonna pass on that one, too.”

Zimms has always been great at looking life-or-death serious, and he’s trotted out the expression now.   
“Kenny, is everything okay? You seem really…tired.”

“There’s this thing called hockey, ever heard of it? Tends to get pretty tiring when you’ve just lost a tough game.”

Jack knows him too well; he isn’t going to buy it if he has a chance to really think about it. Kent turns his back and heads toward the exit.

“See ya, Zimms,” he throws over his shoulder, and pretends he doesn’t hear Jack calling after him.  
It’s a relief when the door shuts out the sound of his voice.

_X_

Kent isn’t quite sure what day it is. He’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be spring, but he’s frozen all the time now so it’s not like he can tell. He can’t remember the last time he left the apartment to do anything but go to work. (He’s always hated using that phrase for hockey, but honestly right now that’s what it feels like: work to get out of bed, work to look put together out there, work to not totally alienate his team)

It’s dark out right now, so there must not be a game. He’s set a complex series of alarms and notifications on his phone so he doesn’t have to pay attention to his schedule; he just does what his phone tells him.

Which is why he’s confused when his phone starts ringing.

Kent looks out the window, just to be sure he hasn’t missed something. It’s been months since his phone did anything after dark, but the night sky is lit only by neon, so whatever’s happening is definitely new. All of a sudden, he feels a lot more awake; he scrambles to pick up before whoever it is gives up, and sends up a quick prayer that this isn’t going to turn into a retelling of the Ring.

“Parson,” he says into the receiver, trying not to sound too desperate. Whoever is on the other end got through whatever curse this is—the last thing he wants is to scare them off.

“Oh!” says a surprised voice, and then nothing else. Kent can hear background noise, like a far-off party. 

“Anyone there?” If this is a fucking butt-dial…

“You weren’t supposed to answer,” says the voice, and it’s slurred but it sounds awfully familiar, if he could only place it.

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s usually what happens when you call someone.”

“Not at two in the morning, it’s not!” Well would you look at that, it really is two in the morning. Things are starting to fit together.

“Did you drunk dial me?”

“I most certainly did not!” The accent is so thick, even around the slurring, that the answer to this hits Kent like a bag of bricks. He can’t help it; he starts laughing. What even is his fucking life that the one person who manages to get around this thing that’s stalking Kent is—

“Bittle, right?” he manages, through the (possibly slightly hysterical) laughter. “Fucking figures. Okay, Bittle, if you didn’t drunk dial me, then what were you expecting to happen?”

“I was going to leave you a voicemail.” It’s clear that Bittle is trying to have some dignity about this. Kent snorts, and gets up to pour himself a drink. It’s only fair to level the playing field.

“Right, because that’s something that people do at two in the morning when they’re completely sober.”

“I may have had one or two drinks, Mr. Parson, but I’ll have you know—”

“What were you going to say?” The only alcohol he has in his cabinet is champagne and peppermint schnapps, and he sure as hell isn’t wasting champagne on this.

“—I am completely—what?

“The voicemail you were going to leave. What were you going to say? Might as well tell it to my face. Or ear. Whatever.” He takes an ill-advised gulp of schnapps, and winces at the sensation of swallowing mouthwash.

“I—well.” He hears Bittle take a deep breath across the country, but when he speaks again his voice is full of an unexpected steel. “I was going to say you should be ashamed of yourself, Kent Parson.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page,” Kent mutters, but Bittle is either just on a roll now or flat out doesn’t hear him.

“I don’t care if you don’t like me, but Jack was so happy you were getting to be friends again. I don’t know what you did to him in Providence, but he’s been all worked up since then trying to figure out if you’re upset at us for coming out, and if that’s the case let me just tell you right now—”

A sound forces its way out of Kent’s mouth, and he honestly couldn’t say whether it’s laughter or a sob. “Typical fucking Zimms.” He gives the bottle of schnapps a look of betrayal.

Bittle has stopped in his tirade. “What’s that supposed to mean?” It’s almost cute, how ready this kid is to defend Zimms’s honor.

“I know I get the rap as the selfish one? But I’m not the only self-centered asshole in this relationship. Did it ever occur to either of you that I have other shit going on in my life than worrying about your love lives? Sorry if my issues inconvenience His Highness, though, we all know his are the only ones that matter around here.”

There’s a loud silence following this, and Kent fills it by taking another swig of the schnapps. From the other side of the phone, there’s a distant cheer like whatever partygoers Bittle’s escaped from are big fans of peppermint. Pretty soon, he’s going to get an earful about treating Jack Zimmermann like he’s fucking made of glass, and Bittle is going to hang up, and Kent’s going to be completely alone again. He swallows down more schnapps.

“Kent,” says Bittle, and here it comes, “are you okay?”

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s so unexpected. Maybe it’s the peppermint schnapps. Maybe he’s just really fucking sick of keeping up appearances, and Bittle already doesn’t like him, so who cares? Maybe it doesn’t even matter why.

“No, Bittle,” Kent says. “I’m really fucking not.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned - there is minor injury to an animal in this chapter. It's not graphic and Kit is just fine, but be aware if that's something that bothers you.

Kent still gets a thrill every time his phone rings at night, no matter how often it happens.

It doesn’t work when he tries to dial out and he still can’t use the Internet, but the phone calls give him something to grab onto, some proof that the entire outside world hasn’t entirely forgotten about him. (Which is a ridiculous idea in the first place—he’s the captain of the Aces, there’s no way anyone following hockey is about to forget about him—but he never said he was logical)

Sometimes Bitty will tell him about his family drama, or complain about the crappy job he has running social media for a local radio station, or describe a new club that he visited over the weekend. Sometimes he’ll try to help Kent walk through a recipe via Skype. Some days Kent will talk to him about the Aces’ latest game, or tell him about his favorite tricks for dealing with the media. The only thing that’s off limits, by an unspoken agreement, is Jack.

The great thing, though, is that Bitty never seems to run out of words. Kent can just sit on the couch and close his eyes and let the chipper Georgia accent wash over him. It’s the most relaxed he’s been in months. He doesn’t have to say much—though he does get Bitty laughing a few times with stories of his team’s antics—and he definitely doesn’t have to talk about what’s been happening to him. If he can get Purrs to curl up with him, it’s almost enough to feel warm again.

And then the Aces are knocked out of the playoffs.

“—and bless her heart, then she starts trying to explain to me what Tumblr is, like I haven’t been using it since before she knew it existed—”

“Why are you doing this?” Honestly it’s surprising that the Aces even made it to the playoffs in the first place, with how he’s been playing. He’s not saying that the entire team depends on him, but it’s how a team works: if one player is out of synch, it throws everyone else off. The blame for this one is squarely on his shoulders, and he’s having trouble figuring out why anyone bothers with him at all.

“Because the poor thing really doesn’t understand the first thing about social media, honestly, I had to show her how to use Instagram—”

“I mean why are you calling me? You don’t even like me. I’m a waste of time and we both know it.”

“I beg your pardon, Kent Parson, I know no such thing.”

“No, seriously, what do you even get out of this? Did Zimms put you up to it?”

“Jack has nothing to do with it,” Bitty exclaims, sounding gratifyingly offended. 

“Then fill me in. What’s your deal?”

“Well I started because you just sounded like you needed someone to talk to, but if you must know, it turns out I actually do like you, Lord knows why.”

“Oh,” says Kent.

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.”

For once, Kent can’t come up with anything to say. After a moment, Bitty picks right back up with the story of his incompetent manager, but Kent can’t stop replaying the words over in his head: I actually do like you.

_X_

Kent would love to believe him, but the calls stop after that. He spends the entire next night staring at his phone, waiting for it to ring well past the time Bitty would have gone to sleep. He tries calling Bitty, hoping against hope that something will have changed, and then tries Zimms just for the hell of it. 

Nothing.

Well, that’s fine. It’s not like clinging to Bitty’s voice was keeping him sane, or anything. It’s not like he forgot how empty and unending nights are over the past few weeks (except that he totally had).

He’s more or less given up the pretense of sleeping, but the problem is that he can’t find anything that can hold his attention for more than half an hour at a time—especially without the internet or tv. He manages to find a CD player he had as a teenager at the back of his closet, and he’s halfway through listening to his Britney Spears collection out of nostalgia when there’s a knock on the door.

He yanks out his earbuds and sits straight up, not sure if he heard correctly, but the knock repeats.

Kent flings open the door and comes face to face with none other than Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann, the most famous couple in hockey themselves.

“What,” Kent says, and he means it to come out pissy but sounds more bewildered to his own ears.

“You stopped taking my calls,” Bitty says, tipping his chin up defiantly. “We were worried about you.”

“You need help, Kenny,” Zimms adds, that familiar furrow settled between his brows.

“What, because you know so much about what’s going on with me?”

“We will if you tell us,” Jack insists, all big and beefy and right outside Kent’s door, and a chill runs its way down Kent’s spine.

“You know what?” Kent says. “Too little, too late. I don’t want your help, I don’t want to talk about it, I want you to leave me the fuck alone. Shouldn’t be too hard for you, after all that practice.”

“Kent—” Bitty exclaims, but Kent’s already in the middle of slamming the door in their faces. He locks it behind him, grabs his CD player and turns up the volume so he can pretend that he doesn’t hear them entreating him to let them in, let them help him. Eventually they stop trying, and, well—good. He pointedly ignores the piece of paper one of them slipped under his door, because it’s just better for everyone if Kent is alone.

The problem with the ignoring plan is that Purrs decides the little piece of paper would be super fun to play with. It’s not like he doesn’t give her toys—she’s the most spoiled-rotten cat in the state of Nevada, he swears—but obviously a piece of paper is so much more fun. He doesn’t care much—maybe she’ll eat it and destroy the evidence it ever existed—so he actually gets a kick out of watching her bat it around, bite it, and generally fuck it up. He’s outright laughing when she manages to fling it halfway to the couch, and promptly rampages after it like the ferocious beast she is.

He doesn’t immediately realize what happens. At first he thinks she spooked and ran off in the other direction—except that she doesn’t land on her feet. In fact, she hits a footstool, and for a long breathless moment she lies stunned on the ground. When she does get up, she’s favoring one paw.

Kent is on his feet in an instant.

“You son of a bitch!” Kent roars, breath fogging in the empty air. You can fuck with his life, make him miserable, chase people off—whatever, he doesn’t care, he probably deserves it. But no one and nothing fucks with his cat. 

He doesn’t waste a minute. He grabs Kit’s carrier out of his closet and manages to catch her without too much difficulty (probably because she’s still limping, but he’s trying not to think about it). With Purrs in her carrier in one hand Kent storms out the door, only pausing on a whim to scoop up the piece of paper she was playing with.

The first thing Kent does is drive as far away from his apartment as possible. He knows this thing follows him, but it’s weaker when he’s away from home. Only when he’s satisfied that he’s put enough distance between them and it does he look at what’s written on the paper.

It’s the name of a hotel, and an address.

Kent hesitates. There are a lot of ways this can go, and not many of them are good—but he’s done with being scared. He’s furious.

This time it’s his turn to stand out in the hallway and knock on a door, and pray that Zimms and Bitty will answer. Purrs is meowing pitifully from her carrier—she hates it even in the best of circumstances, and these are far from the best, and he’s sure that any minute one of the hotel staff is going to walk by and insist that pets aren’t allowed and that he’s bothering the guests anyway, he has to leave—and of course, he’ll put up a fight and probably get caught on camera and put on the front page of a tabloid and PR is going to have metaphorical kittens—

“Kent?” Bitty is sleep-rumpled and confused, and Kent has never seen a more wonderful sight in his life. 

“What—”

“It hurt Kit,” Kent growls, and he doesn’t know what his face looks like but it’s enough for Bitty to step to the side and let him in.

“What hurt Kit?” Zimms asks, looking unusually soft as he perches at the edge of the room’s only bed.

“It hurt Kit and I can’t—” Kent cuts himself off as he searches for an explanation and realizes that he’s got nothing. This whole thing is so fucked up that he can’t possibly make this to make sense to anyone else, he’s just so tired and angry and oh hey, is he crying? Well that’s embarrassing—

“Oh honey,” Bitty says, and pulls Kent into a hug. They’re close enough in height that it isn’t too awkward to bury his face in Bitty’s shoulder, and he feels someone lift Kit’s carrier from his hand. He lets himself be guided to the bed, and feels the mattress dip when Zimms sits on the other side of him, one hand resting on Kent’s back, hesitant but comforting. Kent tries his best to stop crying, but it’s like everything over the last months is pouring out of him—Purrs and Swoops and Manuel and the long, lonely nights and the constant tiredness and being knocked out of the playoffs. Eventually the sobs trail off and he sits upright, scrubbing the moisture from his face.

“Well this is awkward,” he manages, voice raspy. “Any chance we can pretend that never happened?”

Zimms and Bitty exchange a look around him.

“Not a chance,” says Zimms, who adds with a slight smile, “besides, I’ve seen you do worse, eh?”

“God, don’t remind me,” Kent groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened,” Bitty suggests, with a tone that tells Kent it’s not really a suggestion. Kent sighs.

“Fine, but you’re not going to believe me.”

So he tells them—everything from start to finish. He can tell they’re skeptical, but they let him talk, only interrupting to clarify on some points. By the time he finishes, he feels scraped out, like a pumpkin about to get carved.

“And then I came here, and you probably think I’m crazy,” he concludes. Again they exchange a look, and Kent’s chest aches for a moment that he’s clearly the outsider here.

“I don’t think you’d ever do anything to hurt that cat,” Zimms says slowly.

Bitty’s chewing on his lip, clearly thinking hard. “It’s not like we’ve never had ghosts around, honey.”

“You don’t really believe Ransom—”

“I’m just saying, it’s not totally unbelievable…” and Bitty cuts himself off with a jaw-cracking yawn.  
Zimms has an indulgent smile on his face, and there’s that pang in Kent’s chest again. He is over Jack Zimmermann, dammit, why are his emotions refusing to get the memo?

“We’re going to help you Kenny, but whatever it is, we can handle it in the morning. I think we all could use some sleep.” And woah, hey, is Zimms talking about Kent too? Because--

“I’m not going back there,” Kent tells them, throat tightening at the thought. “I mean it, I don’t care if I have to sit in my car all night.”

Bitty rubs Kent’s back. “Of course we’re not kicking you out.”

Kent looks over at the suite’s tiny couch and wills himself to move, but he has Zimms on one side of him and Bitty on the other and-- “I’m stealing all your blankets then. No arguing, you’ve got body heat.”  
Zimms clears his throat awkwardly, and when Kent looks, his face is turning red. “Or you could—I mean, this bed is big enough—”

“What Jack is trying to say is you should sleep with us. Um.” All Kent has to do is raise his eyebrows, and Bitty is turning bright red now, too. “No funny business, Mr. Parson, or you’ll be sleeping on the couch. I just—you were so—”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Zimms finishes, and fuck, they’re too perfect with their finishing each other’s thoughts and those looks they keep exchanging, and it’s so not fair. But Kent doesn’t complain, because he can’t say no to this, and he pries off his pants and settles into bed. It’s a little weird at first, but the only real moment of discomfort is when Kent sits straight up to demand where Purrs is, before Jack assures him that he shut her in the bathroom with plenty of soft towels and the food dish from her carrier. Snuggled in with the familiar solidness of Jack at his back and Bitty draped over his front, Kent finds himself drifting in a sea of warmth.

Amazingly, Kent falls asleep.

_X_

Over the last few months, Kent has gotten used to his apartment being quiet and empty. It comes as a shock to suddenly have Bitty and Zimms hanging around, invading his kitchen, filling his space. The air is sweet with baking pie—lemon meringue, to be precise, which is honestly super creepy because he has no memory of telling Bitty that’s his favorite—and it’s so welcoming, so warm, it’s—

It’s too much.

He can hear the sounds of Zimms and Bitty chirping each other as they clean up the mess they made out of his kitchen, and he can’t stand another word of it. They’re so caught up in each other that they won’t even notice he’s gone anywhere, they don’t need him. As quietly as he can manage, he slinks back to his room and closes the door. When that doesn’t muffle their voices enough, he presses his hands over his ears.

It’s not that Kent has trouble seeing them together. Okay, if he’s being honest with himself, he totally does, because they’re both amazing and so close and it makes him want but they’re so obviously perfect together. He’s a disaster of a human being, but even he won’t try to break that up. So yeah, that’s a problem, but it’s not the problem.

And since he’s on the whole being honest thing, he doesn’t really know what the problem is.

He used to love having people around. He lived for going out with his team, for meeting fans, for being in the spotlight. Now, though, even having them in his apartment makes his shoulders tight and puts a knot in the pit of his stomach. The thought of interacting with them, putting on a brave face and joking around and laughing in the kitchen like they are right now, seems the next thing to impossible.

“If this is your fault, you’re one twisted son of a bitch,” Kent tells the thing that’s been haunting him, and slumps onto the bed. He covers his face with a pillow and focuses on taking long, deep breaths, willing himself to get over whatever this is.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been trying to calm down when he hears a quiet rap on the door. Since he doesn’t particularly feel like moving, he groans wordlessly into his pillow and hopes that’s enough for whichever of the lovebirds this is to get a hint and go away.

No such luck.

“Kent?” says Bitty, and he hears the door creak open tentatively. “You doing all right, darlin’?”

“I am one with the pillow,” Kent informs him, though he’s not sure how much of it Bitty can understand through said pillow. The mattress next to him dips.

“Your pie should be ready to eat in a few minutes. You wanna come out and have a piece?”

Kent tips the pillow away from his face just enough to see Bitty’s, and squints against the sudden brightness. “Not really, no.”

“Now that is the answer of someone who’s never tried my pies,” Bitty declares primly, but his hand has stretched out to rub circles on Kent’s ankle. Kent closes his eyes and his existence narrows to the soothing warmth of Bitty’s caress. “Feel like telling me what’s wrong? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

“I just—” Kent starts, and fumbles for the words for what’s going on. “I don’t really feel up to going out there and acting like everything’s normal.”

Bitty’s hand never pauses. “Then don’t. Sweetheart, no one’s saying you’ve gotta pretend anything. We both know what’s going on, we know the crap you’re dealing with is seven kinds of messed up. It’s okay not to be okay.”

A profound sense of relief wells up in Kent to the point of overflowing, and seriously, what the fuck is up with him lately? “I want you to know I don’t actually cry this much,” Kent says wetly, scrubbing at his face. “This is entirely your fault.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Mr. Parson, I know my fair share of big bad hockey players and all of you are secretly marshmallows on the inside.” Bitty offsets the chirping by stroking his hand up and down Kent’s leg instead of in circles, and if he’s not careful Kent is going to start getting ideas. But under Bitty’s touch Kent manages to gulp down a full breath of air, and the knot inside him loosens.  
He finally sits up, and the hand stills. The part of him that doesn’t care how taken Bits is wishes it would keep going. “You must know very different hockey players than I do.”

“You’d be surprised. Now how about we head out there and get some of that pie before Jack eats it all? That boy acts like he’s the model of nutrition, but leave him alone with my cooking for five minutes…”  
Kent smiles weakly and in the moment he hesitates to follow, Bitty has swooped in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, as warm and sweet as the pie he keeps talking about. “We’re here to help you, remember? You’ve just gotta let us.”

And the knot of tension in his stomach has turned into something different, has turned into a burning want, but Kent can deal with that, Kent can push that down and ignore it, this at least is something he’s familiar with. This is easier than the weight of putting on an act, so he follows Bitty to the dining room table, declaring,

“This pie had better be as good as I keep hearing it is.”

And Jack smiles from his seat and assures him, “I was skeptical at first, too, but believe me, it is.”  
And maybe Kent can’t put on a smile and amp up his bravado like he usually might, but Jack and Bitty seem more than happy to keep up the conversation when he can only manage few words, and they’re both making him feel a part of it anyway and the pie really is divine and it would be so easy to get used to this, and Kent--

Kent remembers why they’re here. He sits back in his seat, laughter replaced by queasiness. It doesn’t take long for the lovebirds to pick up on his sudden shift in mood, either; they’re frowning now.

“Not that this isn’t fun, but we need a plan and I don’t think the Ghostbusters are taking calls from Vegas,” Kent tells them, crossing his arms over his chest like he isn’t terrified.

“Right,” says Jack, and they get down to business.

Zimms wants to see what this thing is like first hand, and Kent can’t convince him that he’s being fucking stupid, so their first step is staying up to meet it, so to speak. Jack extracts a promise from Bitty that he’ll get the fuck out the minute things start getting weird—a promise that Kent fully supports and tries to get from Jack, with slightly less success. 

They spend so much time talking about the details that it’s well past dark by the time any of them notice. There’s nothing less ordinary than a chill to the air that Jack doesn’t even notice because he has Canadian blood running through his veins. All three of them end up passing out on the couch, which leaves Kent with an unprecedented second night of sleep in a row (though his neck was at a stupid angle and hurts now) and Zimms and Bitty with no evidence to assuage their doubts.

“I swear I’m not crazy,” Kent tells them in the morning. “Try it again.”

They spend the day seeing some of the slightly less touristy Vegas sights, and return to Kent’s place before dusk. The problem is, the exact same thing happens again.

The third night they try, Bitty begs off. “I don’t know about y’all, but my back can’t take another night on this couch,” he tells them before retreating to the guest bedroom.

Kent and Jack are left to sit in silence. Kent doesn’t know what he wants more—for the ghost or whatever to show up and prove that he’s not off his rocker, or for it to have finally fucked off and left him in peace without hurting anyone else. When he feels the shiver run down his back, he has a feeling he knows which one it’s going to be, whether he wants it or not.

“You should keep a blanket out here if you’re that cold all the time,” Zimms tells him, shifting closer on the couch to share his body heat, because Jack Zimmermann radiates heat like an oven. Kent tries not to read into it when Zimms throws an arm over his shoulders—it’s obvious how much he and Bitty love each other, this doesn’t mean what he wishes it did in spite of how much he tells himself he’s moved on, but he can’t help snuggling in a little. Because of the cold, of course, definitely nothing more than that--

Kent is knocked off balance when the warm chest he was leaning against is pulled out from under him. He scrambles up to find Zimms sprawled on the ground, looking absolutely baffled.

“How did I—” he begins, getting to his feet.

“Stop!” Kent shouts before Jack can take a step. “Don’t come near me. It might not hurt you if you stay away.”

He ignores Jack’s protests and backs slowly into his room, barricading the door behind him. He doesn’t think it would hold up if Zimms really tried to bust it down, but thankfully they don’t find out. Kent’s breath fogs with every exhalation, and he wraps himself in blankets that do nothing to stave off the prickle between his shoulder blades that tells him he’s being watched.

It’s a long, sleepless night.

_X_

Bitty and Zimms are conferring over pancakes when Kent finally emerges from his room in the morning. Judging by the dark circles under their eyes, they didn’t get much more sleep than he did.

“What are you still doing here?”

“We said we’d help you, and that’s what we’re going to do,” Bitty tells him, matter-of-fact. “Now sit down and have some pancakes.”

“But Jack—” Kent begins, though he’s already obeying Bitty’s orders.

“I’ve gotten worse hits on the ice,” Jack tells him, drizzling maple syrup on his plate. “You told me what to expect, and that’s what happened. Now we know what we’re dealing with.”

“You mean you know I haven’t completely lost it.”

“You can’t have completely lost it. You’ve got real maple syrup, eh?”

It’s enough for Kent to crack a smile. “That’s the most Canadian sentence I’ve heard in my life, and I’ve lived in Canada.”

He’s halfway through his breakfast when the conversation turns serious again. “We think we know what’s going on,” Jack says. “Or at least part of it.”

“Think about what’s been going on every time something bad happens.” Bitty picks up the thread seamlessly. He gives Kent a moment to consider before continuing. “It’s whenever anyone’s doing something to make you happy, right?”

Kent reflects, and—“Well shit.” They might be onto something. “What about the first two nights you stayed up with me though?”

“We think your ghost might be intimidated by numbers,” Jack suggests, “but we’re not sure. But I’ve been trying to research, and it turns out that if you believe in that sort of thing, there are lots of stories about things that feed off of people’s unhappiness.”

“Well I definitely believe in that sort of thing now.” Kent licks his fork thoughtfully. “So what you’re saying is that it actually benefits from me being unhappy. Why did it let your calls come through for so long then, Bits? You pretty much kept me sane for the last few weeks.”

Bitty looks down. “I think maybe because…well. When I made that first call I didn’t exactly mean you well, remember? And then once I admitted that I care about you, I couldn’t get through anymore.”

“Makes more sense than anything I’ve come up with so far,” Kent says with a shrug. “Any ideas what we do next? Much as I wouldn’t mind keeping on sleeping with the two of you, something tells me that’s not a sustainable option.”

He mostly meant it as a joke, but interestingly enough both of them have pink in their cheeks when Jack answers. “That’s about as far as we got. Is there anyone in Vegas right now who you trust with this? I think the more people who care about you around here, the better.”

And of course the first person that comes to mind is someone who, as far as Kent knows, is still pissed as fuck with him. Because that’s just the kind of person Kent is. But he’d trust Swoops with anything—has trusted Swoops with his deepest, darkest secret. Yeah, having Swoops around right now honestly sounds awesome. And with Jack and Bitty here to back him up, maybe he won’t look quite so cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

“Yeah, I know a guy.” He cringes. “I might have to call and grovel a bit first, though.”

“What, Kent Parson made someone mad? Well I never,” says Bitty, and he might look sweet and innocent, but damn if he isn’t a sarcastic little shit sometimes.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” Kent grumbles, and steps out on the balcony so he can have this conversation without the commentary. It’s going to be hard enough as it is.

The phone rings for a long time. 

“What do you want, Parser?” Swoops finally barks.

“I didn’t think you were going to pick up.”

“Neither did I. So tell me what you want before I regret doing it.”

Kent sighs. “I want to apologize,” he says, leaning on the balcony rail.

“Hold on, I need to set my phone to record this.” Kent is 89% sure that Swoops is joking. Maybe 71%.

“What I said to you was way out of line—”

“Damn right it was!”

“—and it wasn’t true. You’re a fucking great player, and you make our team better just by being on it.” He’s used to talking over Swoops’ interruptions by now; otherwise, their friendship wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

“You can save the pep talk, oh captain my captain,” Swoops drawls. “Where was this inspirational shit at the end of this season when the guys could’ve used it?”

Kent drags his free hand down his face. “I’ve been going through some shit—”

“So you admit it!”

“—and I let it get in the way of acting like a captain. I let you guys down, and I’m sorry.”

“Any plans to tell me what exactly this shit was?”

“It’s a long story. It’s kind of better if you hear it in person.” Kent glances back through the glass door to where his guests are cleaning up the breakfast dishes. “Are you free tonight? I, um. I have Zimmermann and his boyfriend staying with me, you should have dinner with us and I can explain.”

Swoops groans. “Of fucking course this has to do with Zimmermann. Fine. As long as it’s on you, I’ll come have dinner.”

Kent soaks in the morning sunlight and smiles as he wraps up the call. It feels like just maybe he can get through this. First things first, though.

“I’m taking a nap,” Kent tells Zimms and Bitty as he returns inside.

And that’s exactly what he does.

_X_

Kent’s eyes are gritty and raw when he wakes up, but he still drags himself out of bed. Even though he could use another six hours of sleep, the sun is high in the sky, and some habits die hard.

Zimms is alone in the living room when Kent emerges, doing something on a laptop that he closes as soon as he sees Kent. Kent walks straight past him to flop unceremoniously into the couch, already wondering if it’s too soon to go back to sleep. His eyelids are so heavy…

“Bitty’s checking out the pool,” Zimms supplies without prompting.

“What, and your Northern constitution is too delicate to brave the heat?”

“I thought someone should be here when you woke up.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kent yawns and stretches, heels digging into the couch cushion. He can feel Jack’s eyes on him.

“You’re going to need to put on a lot more weight before next season starts.”

“Yeah, just finished the last season, not really thinking about the next one yet.” Part of him knows Zimms says it because he’s worried, but does he have to rub salt into the wound? Kent’s not good enough, he gets it, he doesn’t need to be reminded of it in his own apartment.

“Too bad we both got knocked out of playoffs so early. I was looking forward to facing you for the Cup.” Nope, Zimms just has to barrel right on. Time was, he would have been inconsolable after a loss like that and Kent would have been his shoulder to cry on. Of course, they usually ended up doing a lot more than crying; sex was such a great distraction. Too bad it’s off the table now. Too bad Zimms is the one with his shit together now, probably looking at the mess Kent is and pitying him and thanking his lucky stars he got out before he got stuck to Kent for good.

“What are you even doing here?” Kent asks, struggling to sit up when the cushions are so soft and inviting.

Zimms gestures at his laptop. “I was seeing if I could find out anything else useful—”

“I mean why did you come here at all?”

“I wanted to help—”

“Bullshit. This whole thing was Bitty’s idea and we both know it. You just tagged along because let’s face it, how can you turn down those puppy dog eyes?” Zimms is trying to protest, but Kent is building up some steam here and talks over him. “You’ve barely talked to me at all since you got here. Hell, you barely talked to me at all before that. Did you even mean any of that bullshit about us being friends again? Because I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of it.”

“Kenny, I came because we were both worried about you. Are both worried about you. I’m sorry I haven’t been the best at keeping in touch, but we’ve had a lot going on the last few months.”

“Right! Did I ever say congrats on coming out? Great fucking job, Zimms. Did it occur to you maybe your ex who is also in the NHL might want a little warning first?”

“It had nothing to do with you!” Zimms’ shout is overly loud, and it seems to echo. Despite the early summer heat, Kent is shivering.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Kent stands abruptly, legs unsteady under him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows that he can’t stay here for another minute. He practically staggers out the door and to the elevator bank, punching the call button with all the energy he has.

“Kent, wait, I didn’t mean—” Zimms rushes out into the hallway after him, puts a hand on his shoulder that’s too gentle in contrast to all the yelling they’d been doing. Kent desperately wants to lean into it, to be in Jack’s arms again, to be cared about for fucking once—but it’s pretty obvious exactly where he stands. “You have to understand—”

The ding of the elevator cuts him off, and Kent backs into it before the doors even finish sliding open. “Yeah, I don’t have to understand shit, Zimms.” At least something is going his way today, though, because the elevator doors have the good grace to shut right in Jack Zimmermann’s face.

All of the fight drains out of Kent on the elevator ride down. It feels like he can barely hold his head up, he’s just so tired and the lobby of his building is too loud. He tries to block out the noise, even though he can hear someone calling his name—how did Zimms make it down that quickly? Whatever, it didn’t matter—and just focuses on getting out. If he can just get out, get away from everyone, it’ll be better. Kent was always better off on his own, anyway.

He gets into his car and starts driving without a destination other than away.

And he’s not sure how, but suddenly Kent realizes he’s parked. He blinks groggily, looking around at the vast expanse of nothingness around him. The scrub and rocks cast purple shadows in the setting sun, and Kent has to blink again, because when he started driving he was sure that it wasn’t much past noon. How long has he been sitting in the car? Where is he?

He must have come here for a reason. Trying to clear his head, Kent steps out of his car and into the desert. Away from the road there’s an outcropping of rock, and there’s something about it—without thinking he moves toward it, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill of the evening air. From the road behind him he can hear voices, but they’re so far away and the heat rising from the sand in the distance before him is hypnotizing. He can almost see a shape in the waves in the air, a dark form just in front of the outcropping he’s been heading for. He just needs to get close enough to—

“Kent!” The shout is right next to his ear, and Kent whips around, overbalancing right into Jack’s arms. Somehow even in the desert Zimms’ touch is scorching, and Kent feels like an icicle that could melt against him—but, he remembers, Zimms doesn’t care about him, not really. He jerks away, stumbling to stand on his own two feet.

“Fuck off, Zimms,” Kent slurs. He feels drunk. Has he been drinking? He’s just so tired, and he needs to get over to those rocks. Once he gets there, he can rest—look, the form in the air is reaching out to him, how can he not keep shuffling forward, find the embrace of someone who actually wants him—

There’s a hand on his wrist. “Kent, honey, please stop walking.” Bitty’s voice is honey that clings to Kent’s feet and makes them difficult to move. He’s so close to his goal now—if he stretched out his arms, he could almost reach the rocks—but he’d have to push away Bitty and he’s frozen in indecision. 

“I know this thing has been trying to make you feel like you’ve got nowhere to turn, but we’ve got your back. We’re not going to let it take you, and that’s a promise.”

Kent has never heard such vitriol in Bitty’s voice, and the figure is recoiling from it. Mindlessly, Kent reaches his hand toward it, and it reaches back--

A shape hurtles past him, and Swoops careens straight through the figure to crash into the rocks behind it.

“Fucking ow!” shouts Swoops. “What the fuck is this Dementor sonofabitch?”

Kent staggers back a few steps and shakes his head mind clearing slightly. The dark shape—whether because of Swoops or because Kent’s only now coming to his senses—is suddenly the scariest fucking thing Kent has seen in his life. Goosebumps prickle across his entire body as he realizes he still can’t pull entirely away.

“It’s trying to get Kent alone and steal his life energy,” Zimms says, and there’s ice in his voice that would put a hockey rink to shame. “It’s been feeding on him for months.”

“We think talking about it makes it weaker,” Bitty adds, “so if you’ll excuse me, I have a few choice words to say to it. You are a disgrace, picking on poor sad boys like Kent, you no good parasite of a ghost—” 

“Kenny,” Zimms says in a low voice under Bitty’s diatribe, “I’m not an expert, but if all the articles I’ve read are right, you’re the only one who can beat this thing for good. But you need to fight.”

And Kent wants to fight, he does, but there’s this thread of ice running through him that makes him ask, “What do you care?”

He’d almost forgotten how sad Zimms’ eyes could look. “I’m sorry, Kenny, okay? I thought I was doing you a favor by keeping you out of it. I thought if you didn’t get involved when we came out, you’d be protected from the worst of the media. I didn’t stop to think maybe telling you would protect you better.”

Kent thinks about Jack Zimmermann and the media, and the way they’ve always been after him, and the way he would pop anxiety pills like candy, and the way that even now they keep searching for new ways to rip Zimms apart—and he thinks yeah, maybe Jack did think he was helping Kent out by leaving him in the dark.

“Maybe next time you come out, give a guy a heads up,” Kent tells him, and Zimms’ smile is like the sunrise. “Remind me to apologize for being an asshole when we’re done here. How do I get rid of this thing?”

They both look up to where Bitty is still trying to lecture a fucking ghost, and Swoops is still trying to punch a fucking ghost, and both of them are looking pretty exhausted but then again, the figure in the air is looking a lot more transparent, too.

“I think you have to convince it that it doesn’t have a hold on you anymore, and it’ll leave.”

“Easier said than done,” Kent says. He can still feel that thread of ice, telling him exactly all the ways he’s alone and pointless and would be better off if he could just step into the figure’s embrace—

“You’re Kent Parson, remember?” Jack is looking at him with that glint in his eye that says he’s chirping, but there’s nothing insincere about it when he adds, “Tell it why you’re awesome.”

Kent almost laughs, and the smile is just enough for him to start. “Hey,” he says, and then again, louder, “Hey!”

Both Bitty and Swoops stop what they’re doing; there’s no doubt that all attention is on Kent now. He takes a deep breath.

“You listening? I’m captain of the Las Vegas Aces. I won the Calder and I have my name on the Stanley Cup twice.” The figure is fading, but it’s not gone yet. Kent digs deeper. “I’m gonna be a godfather when our goalie’s wife has her baby. I’ve got impeccable fashion sense, mad Twitter game, and a great ass. I’ve got friends who will apparently punch a ghost for me even when I’ve been a dick.” 

The figure is moaning and rippling like it’s made of liquid rather than shadow. It’s moving toward Kent now instead of staying in place, and simply passes through Swoops when he tries to stand in front of it. Kent can feel all the hair on his body stand on end from the iciness radiating from this sentient patch of shadow. 

He grits his teeth and growls, “I own the greatest cat in the world, who you fucking hurt, you son of a bitch, so if you show your spectral ass around here ever again you’re gonna learn how we throw down in the NHL.”

The thought breaks on him slowly, like winter melting into spring. “I’m Kent motherfucking Parson, and no one gets to control my happiness but me.”

With a sucking sound, the figure collapses in on itself, looking for all the world how Kent imagines black holes would if black holes also disappeared into thin air. They all stare dumbfounded at the spot where the figure had been standing—

And then Zimms has slung an arm around him in an off-ice cellie, and Swoops lets out a resounding whoop, and Bitty is barreling into him and—

Oh. Those are lips. On his lips. Without thinking, Kent kisses Bitty back, drinking in the warmth and joy and the softness of Bitty’s mouth and the solidness of Jack beside him and—he jerks away from the kiss, already turning to Jack to apologize. Zimms doesn’t look angry, though; in fact, Zimms slips one hand under Kent’s chin and presses a brief but emphatic kiss to his lips. Kent feels like he could be glowing.

“Okay,” says Swoops, arms crossed over his chest, “If that’s how you plan on celebrating, I’m going home.”

Kent tears away from Bitty and Zimms to give Swoops a solid hug and—just to be an asshole—a loud kiss on the cheek. “Have I mentioned lately you’re my best friend?” he asks. “Because you’re my best friend.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can show me your appreciation in beer. Later, because right now I need to go home and reevaluate my entire life.”

Together they walk back to their cars, and Zimms gets in the driver’s seat while Bitty heads to the rental. Kent doesn’t even remember the rest of the ride home—he’s too busy sleeping.

_X_

Kent is sorry that he ever doubted the power of Bitty’s pie. When he says as much, he’s treated to the low rumble of Jack’s laugh and a smug smirk on Bitty’s face as he collects the dirty dishes to put in the sink.

“I tried to tell you, Mr. Parson, but you weren’t having any of it.” He returns to the living room with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Kent tries to sass right back, but his jaw cracks with a yawn before he can even get a word out. It’s been a full day since they went out to the desert, and he still hasn’t caught up on his sleep but it’s not bone-tired exhaustion that plagues him. They’ve filled him in on how Swoops saw him leaving the condo acting like a zombie, told Zimms when he came sprinting down the stairs, and then tailed Kent while Zimms went to get Bitty. Apparently they’d tried to get through to Kent while he was sitting in his car waiting for dusk, but he was unresponsive—by the time he’d gotten out of his car, they were about ready to call an ambulance.

But everything worked out and as far as Kent’s concerned, all is well with the world: Kit’s back from the vet safe and sound, Swoops is talking to him again, he has a whole new season to look forward to and fix his mistakes, he’s sleeping at night again, and Zimms and Bitty…well.

“Time for bed, I think,” Zimms says, and pulls Kent to his feet. They end up chest-to-chest, hovering at the edge of something—Kent’s not sure what those kisses meant last night, if they were just in the heat of the moment or—Zimms closes the space between them, and it feels like coming home. Jack has learned a thing or two since their teenaged years, and so has Kent for that matter, but the taste and the feel of him are just the same and Kent could get lost in it.

When they pull away, Bitty is staring at them with parted lips. “I think somebody said something about bed?” he asks, voice rough and cheeks pink.

As it turns out, there is plenty of room in Kent’s king-sized bed for three grown men. Kent is perfectly happy to be sandwiched right in the middle—he doesn’t think he’s going to get tired of being warm anytime soon. And if he doesn’t manage to fall asleep right away, well—the reasons for that are a lot more enjoyable than they have been lately.

Kent is almost all the way to sleep, sweaty and exhausted but happy, when Jack hums thoughtfully.

“You know, Kenny, Bits and I have been thinking--when you were listing all the things you have yesterday, you forgot something.”

Kent lifts his head off Zimms’ chest to look at him, but it’s Bitty who answers, nuzzling into the back of his neck.

“You’ve got two boyfriends, too,” he murmurs, “if you want ‘em.”

“Yeah,” says Kent, eyes slipping closed. “I guess I can live with that.”

And he falls asleep with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks in the world to my amazing beta <3
> 
> You can reblog this work [HERE](http://pbj-epifest.tumblr.com/post/154959836684/fic-ghost) from the pbj-epifest tumblr page!


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